The Age of a Star
by TheMadKatter13
Summary: Sixty centuries he's followed his angel. Sixty centuries of walking across the sands, traversing the villages, strolling through the cities. Sixty centuries and almost nothing to show for it. Nothing save for their occasionally-still-in-question friendship and the ever-so-rare soft, warm looks his angel graced him with. CU


**TITLE: The Age of a Star**

**SUMMARY: Sixty centuries he's followed his angel. Sixty centuries of walking across the sands, traversing the villages, strolling through the cities. Sixty centuries and almost nothing to show for it. Nothing save for their occasionally-still-in-question friendship and the ever-so-rare soft, warm looks his angel graced him with.**

**AO3 TAGS: Canon Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Non-Chronological, Song Lyrics, Pining, POV Crowley (Good Omens)**

**AN: For amira_syfqh (on twitter / godgaypeen on AO3) from the twitter-based Good Omens Secret-Santa-in-July/August event. My prompt was the delicious song From Eden by Hozier, which I've been listening to for a month straight, along with the second episode ending theme. Bone apple tea~**

**PS - Sorry this is a little late, I keep forgetting about time zones and also time in general.**

* * *

_Babe, there's something tragic about you / Something so magic about you / Don't you agree?_

"Crowley, you're being ridiculous. Look, I- I- I'm quite sure if I can just- just _reach_ the right people, then I can get all this sorted out."

Despite having been in love (with an angel, no less) for the better part of six millennia, Crowley was quite surprised that, not only did he still have a heart, but it was quite capable of breaking.

"I'm going to have a word with the Almighty, and then the Almighty will fix it."

Aziraphale said it with such wide-eyed… _conviction_, with all the panicked _need_ and prayer of a drowning human clinging to a bit of driftwood. What else was Crowley's heart supposed to do?

It was funny that Crowley's angel had already forgotten that, just eleven short years ago, even he himself had been just as gung-ho for the war as the rest of his siblings. That he had 'wanted' to have the war, just so it could be _won_. That the rest of the angelic host didn't _have_ a stake in Earth, that they had no love for humanity or any of its creations.

Still, the state of Crowley's heart had no impact on the swell of frustrated rage at Aziraphale's stubborn denial. "You're so clever! How can somebody as clever as you be so stupid?!"

"I forgive you."

For a brief moment, Crowley very seriously contemplated knocking Aziraphale out and stuffing him in the Bentley. The only thing that stopped him from doing just that was the incessant flow of humans around them, and his very tight timetable defined by the impending demon inquisition. Or rather, that's what Crowley told himself when he left the angel - _his_ angel - standing alone on the kerb with nothing but his words of abandonment and the sound of the Bentley's tires squealing.

* * *

_Babe, there's something lonesome about you / Something so wholesome about you / Get closer to me_

It wasn't that Crowley hadn't known about Aziraphale's bookshop, his angel had more or less confirmed its existence when they met in the Bastille last year, but the name embossed above the door definitely gave him pause:

A.Z. FELL

It left him in a rare state of humour, and he was still smiling when he walked into the shop, a bell tinkling softly above his head.

"Welcome- Oh." Crowley's grin widened as watched the pleased welcome on Aziraphale's face fade into something rather more put-out. "It's you," Aziraphale sniffed.

"Come now, is that any way to greet a friend?" The shop was exactly as Crowly had pictured, cluttered and cosy, already filled to the brim with books and papers. There must have been a staircase somewhere because a mezzanine looked down into the center of the store and Crowley could see even more shelves on the second floor.

"We're not friends," Aziraphale said determinedly, and while Crowley knew that that's what Aziraphale _thought_, it wasn't what he actually _felt_. If Aziraphale really felt that they weren't friends, then they wouldn't have been.

"Mhm," Crowley hummed noncommittally, turning his attention to the books at his elbow. He wasn't interested per se, reading books was never his thing, but his attention was sparked here and there by the evil clinging to some of the titles. "Interesting choice in surnames," he mused, wandering into the stacks. "_Fell_." He turned a look over his shoulder, a sharp grin. "You interested in _falling_, angel?"

There was a moment of brief, stunned silence, and Crowley caught a glimpse of Aziraphale's face frozen in a rictus of shock. Just as quickly as he'd been overcome, Aziraphale unfroze to the effect of red blooming in his cheeks as his shoulders and spine went rigid with indignation. "I resent the implication," Aziraphale said with all the prim dignity his human body could muster. "The surname Fell is quite common and has no relation to your damnation, demon."

It was always cute when his angel tried to take the higher ground with all that they'd done since Eden. Even with all they'd done in the last few centuries. Crowley never blamed Aziraphale though - the thought of Falling was a terrifying one, and if Crowley could Fall just from hanging with the wrong people, where did that leave Aziraphale?

Not that Crowley thought Aziraphale _could_ Fall. Even in his demonic opinion, his friend was probably one of the only, if not _the_ only, angel who didn't need to be afraid. Still…

"It's not all bad," Crowley teased, snaking out a snake's tongue.

Aziraphale's lips went white. "Goodbye, Crowley," he said, and then turned and marched away towards the back room without waiting to see if Crowley was actually going to leave. His mistake.

Instead of obeying the intended dismissal, Crowley continued to peruse the aisles, mouth pulled into a small but contented smile. He wasn't so much interested in the books as he was the way his angel filled the shop's air, his angelic presence not overwhelming but welcoming, his scent beckoning. His aimless wandering eventually put him in the shop's far corner, where he finally found the stairs to the second floor and, upon traversing them, how he found the small west-facing window spilling sunshine onto the mezzanine's wooden floor. With a soft sigh, his clothes became scales, his legs merged, and the long line of his snake's body coiled onto the wood, fitting perfectly into the patch of sunlight.

It was almost as if the spot had been made for him - at this height, at this angle, he could see nearly the whole shop from his sleepy pile of tail. And best of all, when Aziraphale finally reappeared at the entrance of another customer, he didn't even seem to realize Crowley had never left. As Crowley settled in to watch Aziraphale and to nap, he knew that this was the spot he would be returning to for years to come. His own little place to bask. In the sun, and in his angel.

* * *

_No tired sigh, no rolling eyes, no irony / No 'who cares', no vacant stares, no time for me_

"Nanny?"

"Yes dear," Crowley replied without looking up from his knitting. Small hands tugged at the hem of his dress and he finally settled the mass of yarn in his lap as he looked up. Warlock was frowning, and frowning worriedly at that. "What's the matter?"

Warlock looked around and then leaned in, raising his hand to channel his whisper directly into Crowley's ear. "Something's wrong with Brother Francis, Nanny."

There was a strange surging sensation in Crowley's chest, like his entire soul wanted to spread its wings and take flight. Crowley ignored it and placed his knitting in his bag before gathering the handles and standing up. He held out his free hand for Warlock to take. "Let's go see what we can do about cheering him up then.'

It wasn't hard to find Aziraphale. His presence in the garden was like a giant bird had crashed and was pathetically attempting to lift broken wings. Not that Aziraphale _would_ ever have his wings out - Crowley was rather sure that the angel hadn't had his wings out since he'd taken human form. He didn't even look up at them the entire long stroll down the manicured green grass to the little stairs Aziraphale favoured, and even not for a long moment after they'd taken a seat on either side of him. Only then did he startle, and the painfully morose on his expression tried to cheer up, which only made the whole thing more painful to look at.

"What's wrong, Brother Francis?" Warlock asked, wrapping both of his arms around one of Aziraphale's in a child's best hug. Crowley ached to do… well, something similar, but it would never be. Or at least, wouldn't be for some time yet to come. If it came.

"Nothing's wrong, why would you think something's wrong?" Aziraphale asked, a little too quickly, a little too breathlessly. Warlock traded an unimpressed look with Crowley.

"Did they say something at head office yesterday?" Crowley asked. He hadn't seen the angel after he'd returned from his own head office, but he could almost guarantee the archangels were at fault.

"Of course not, how could you even suggest otherwise."

Warlock, who didn't know head office but knew his Brother Francis, traded another long look with Crowley. Crowley leaned across Aziraphale's lap and Warlock leaned towards him, and Crowley whispered "Brother Francis has a difficult family."

That time, the unimpressed look came from Aziraphale, but it was better than the previous expression so Crowley didn't pay any mind. Not that he would have minded in any other circumstance either.

"That's okay, Brother Francis! We'll be a much better family than your other one! Come on!" Warlock exclaimed, getting to his feet and tugging on Aziraphale's arm until he stood too, and promptly dragged him off to play. Crowley followed at a much more sedate pace, one better suited to his heels and skirt, and kept an eye on the both of them, with a particular focus on the slow brightening of Aziraphale's presence.

* * *

_Honey you're familiar like my mirror years ago / Idealism sits prison, chivalry fell on it's sword_

There was something off about the angel of the Eastern Gate. Crawley had been watching him since his arrival and he was just too… too _good_. Too _pure_. It was unnerving and rank of insincerity, his need to do good, to be good.

Crawley didn't trust him.

Still, east was the way the first humans went, was where the angel was standing to watch over them, and where Crawley was going to watch their departure as well. A departure he hadn't expected to be their punishment, although perhaps he should have. He'd Fallen for an inconsequential reason, why wouldn't God's other children be punished just as severely?

The initial conversation did nothing to change his mind for the first few minutes, but then- "Didn't you have a flaming sword?"

He couldn't believe his ears. Or his eyes. Or that the angel actually existed. Aziraphale, Crawley thought his name was, was so good and so pure that he had somehow circled into rebelliousness. Although apparently not strong enough rebellion for him to Fall.

"I hope I didn't do the wrong thing."

"Oh, you're an angel. I don't think you _can_ do the wrong thing."

Well, perhaps that wasn't entirely correct. But in the week Crawley had watched the angel, and the last few minutes he'd talked to him, it was clear that while his statement might not have applied to all angels, it most definitely applied to Aziraphale. Crawley still wasn't sure he had _deserved_ to Fall, not when he hadn't meant to, not when he hadn't wanted to, but he hadn't necessarily been a _good_ angel. Not like Aziraphale. Not that any angel was quite like Aziraphale.

Crawley had never used the word 'smitten' but… No, he wouldn't start using it now either.

* * *

_Innocence died screaming, honey ask me I should know / I slithered here from Eden just to sit outside your door_

Even in a human body, it took more alcohol than average to get an angel and a demon drunk, but Crowley and Aziraphale put in their best efforts and achieved that blissful state with flying colours. Not that blissful was exactly the word Crowley would use for the moment, not when he was haunted by the impending end of the world, the fight that would follow, and how, after 6000 years, Aziraphale was still sitting across the room and not joining Crowley on the settee.

Not that Crowley was going to try asking Aziraphale to do just that - he still got weary looks after all this time if he was just a little closer than normal. Sixty centuries he's followed his angel. Sixty centuries of walking across the sands, traversing the villages, strolling through the cities. Sixty centuries and almost nothing to show for it. Nothing save for their occasionally-still-in-question friendship and the ever-so-rare soft, warm looks his angel graced him with.

"So, what- what exactly is your point?" Aziraphale slurred from that despicable place across the room.

"My point is-" _'My point is that I want you to come over here and lay on me, lay with me, be with me. The world is ending and I've been your friend for six thousand years, I just want to be your lover for the next eleven,'_ Crowley thought. "My point is: dolphins," he said instead, in part because he was a coward, but mostly because he didn't want to push.

He'd been a little too earnest in the 60s and scared his angel away, and he didn't want to do that again. He wanted Aziraphale to come to him on his own, no matter how long it took. Crowley had already waited 6000 years, what was 6000 more?

He just hoped there was going to _be_ 6000 more.

* * *

_Babe there's something wretched about this / Something so precious about this / Where to begin?_

Crowley had done his best to avoid direct contact with Lucifer ever since he fell and became Satan, and he'd especially done his best to avoid getting in trouble with his dark lord. All the power of an archangel wrapped in demonic freedom? No. Just no.

But he didn't have a choice now. Adam's father was coming and he was coming for all of them. The devil's impending arrival was a heavy weight, pulling him to the ground, like a magnet. It was a good thing he didn't need to breathe because he couldn't under the oppressive pull. It was a struggle even to push himself up on his knees, where he could see how he was the only one affected by the oncoming storm. Where he could look upon his angel one last time.

The end was coming, and all Crowley could do was look at Aziraphale. The angel he'd followed from Eden. His angel. His angel that he'd never told how much he loved him, much less that he loved him at all. His angel who he'd never gotten to hug, to kiss, to lay every claim of his loyalty and adoration into soft skin and upon white wings.

"That was that. It was nice knowing you," Crowley said, because even facing the end, he was still a coward and still unwilling to put something on Aziraphale that his angel didn't want, not even right before obliteration. Even if he would be happy with just a kiss, just a hug, just a returned "I love you too." Just a scrap of affection. That was all Crowley wanted, but he would settle for dying at his angel's side.

Unluckily for him, or perhaps luckily, Aziraphale was the one refusing to give up, picking up the sword that had been his once at the beginning of time. "Come up with something or-" He glanced at his sword and for and ephemeral, ethereal moment, Crowley thought he was actually going to get hit with it. "Or I'll never talk to you again."

Oh no. No. Somehow, _that_\, that was _much_ worse. If they survived this, and his stubborn angel held true to his threat, no amount of sleep would take away the pain of having Aziraphale so close and so much further out of reach.

Desperately, Crowley grabbed at all the magic in his reach and pulled it out of hell, pulling him and Aziraphale and the anti-christ out of time.

* * *

_Babe there's something broken about this / But I might be hoping about this / Oh what a sin_

"Enough, I'm leaving." Crowley was tired of debating this. The only way to be sure the anti-christ didn't start the apocalypse was to be sure there wasn't an apocalypse. But Aziraphale was just as unwilling to murder a child as Crowley was, and where did that leave them? Nowhere to go with the apocalypse speeding directly at them.

"You can't leave, Crowley." Oh, and it hurt that Aziraphale would sound so desperate about it. It almost sounded like he was begging Crowley not to leave, though that could have been Crowley's imagination. Was it so bad to want? "There isn't anywhere to go."

Aziraphale was only saying that because this was the only planet with humans and bookshops and fancy little restaurants more than willing to experiment for an experimental palette. There were planets upon planets out in space. So much space, just waiting to be filled up. He and Aziraphale could start. They could be the first, if only Aziraphale would _stop being so stubborn_.

"How long have we been friends? Six thousand years!" It was Crowley's turn to beg. He just wanted to survive the apocalypse and the war that came after, and he just wanted to do it with Aziraphale. He would weather anything if his angel was at side.

"Friends? We're not friends," Aziraphale rejected, and Crowley felt the instant pain and anger that came with the declaration. "We are an _angel_ and a _demon_." He said it like he was white-knuckling his faith and his perceptions, eyes wide and wet. The world was falling apart and that was too much for Crowley's angel, but Crowley had no sympathy. Well, almost no sympathy.

He knew, he _knew_, that asking for a lover was too much. It was too much to ask an angel to love a demon, no matter how many times it seemed like Aziraphale was just as fond of Crowley as Crowley was of him. But friends shouldn't have been an impossible request. They sought one another's company, enjoyed one another's company, they went out together and talked together and walked together. They did everything that human friends did, only Crowley didn't have the privilege to use the word. He wasn't given the right to view their relationship so familiarly, and he hated it.

"Have a nice Doomsday," he called out, feeling absolutely 100% petty as he walked away from the bandstand, refusing to look back at the angel he was leaving behind. At the angel who wanted Crowley to leave him behind.

* * *

_To the strand, a picnic plan, for you and me / A rope in hand for your other man to hang from a tree_

Sleeping was absolutely spectacular. It wasn't required by any means, not for demons nor angels, Crowley just happened to greatly enjoy it. He did tend to enjoy it more when he didn't dream though, but his attempts to sleep away his last encounter with Aziraphale haunted him whether he was awake or asleep.

When he was awake, his mind just tended to repeat the encounter endlessly, in particular, the way Aziraphale dismissed his friendship even as he balked at the thought that Crowley might use the holy water he'd requested to commit suicide, of all things. As if he would. If he was going to go out, he was going to go out with _style_. The way of a proper execution, not a… _holy water suicide pill_. Absolutely ridiculous of Aziraphale to even think of such a thing. It was almost as if he didn't know Crowley at all.

When he slept, though, that might have been worse. When Crowley slept, he dreamed, and when he dreamed, he dreamed of a time he doubted was ever going to happen.

Crowley dreamed most of all of a reciprocated relationship. Of him and Aziraphale in St James's Park, not for a clandestine meeting, but for a clandestine _date_. A picnic in the park, the two of them on a gingham blanket like any other couple, a basket of Aziraphale's favourite treats and a bottle of Crowley's favourite wine. A date where they could be themselves without the threat of Heaven or Hell watching over them, catching them, punishing them. A date where Crowley could just relax and bask in the warm glow of Aziraphale's hedonistic bliss as he bit into a square of decadent fudge. And oh what bliss it was.

Sometimes, the closest Crowley got to happiness was seeing the way Aziraphale enjoyed his food. Every bite was a treat, every new morsel a delight. When they ate together, Crowley always found himself drifting closer during the meal, wanting to _taste_. Not Aziraphale's food, but Aziraphale. In his dreams, his dreams of a perfect picnic date, he could. He could watch Aziraphale's face glow in satisfaction and then lean over and catch some of that same satisfaction warm and bright on his tongue.

But that was just a dream, and dreams didn't come true.

So yes, Crowley loved sleeping, but he _loathed_ dreaming.

* * *

_Honey you're familiar like my mirror years ago / Idealism sits in prison, chivalry fell on it's sword_

Crowley stared at the torrent of hellfire and wondered if Aziraphale was staring down a tub for of holy water. It was what they had expected, it was what they had planned for. What Crowley hadn't anticipated was the way the archangels treated Aziraphale. Even the memory of the look on Aziraphale's face, and the taint to his aura, every time he reported to head office couldn't have prepared Crowley for the way "the Archangel fucking Gabriel" trated his angel.

"Shut your stupid mouth and die already," he said with a smile that Crowley wanted to burn off his face and a pointed look at the column of hellfire

It was odd, needing to practice restraint now of all time, after 60 centuries of demonhood. But restraint was exactly what Crowley needed. Because killing the Archangels before him would defeat the purpose of this whole charade. It wasn't a matter of whether or not he could do it - he knew he could. The element of surprise was in his favour, and the Archangels didn't have the same protection against hellfire that Crowley-disguised-as-Aziraphale did. He could _destroy_ them. But he couldn't. Their destruction would only bring more Archangels. It would probably bring down the whole of the heavenly host upon the both of them.

A little fun though, Crowley could have that. So he stepped into the warm embrace of the flame and breathed flame out. Not hard enough to engulf the angels, unfortunately, but enough to scare them. Crowley forced a smile onto his face. A scare would have to be enough.

* * *

_Innocents died screaming, honey ask me I should know / I slithered here from Eden just to sit outside your door_

It wasn't the first time he'd let his wings out since he took human form, but it had been long enough. The look on Aziraphale's face was sheer delight and relief, and Crowley _knew_ that his stickler-for-the-rules angel hadn't let them out in six millennia. What he wouldn't give to be the one to cause that expression on Aziraphale's face, but the magic wouldn't hold forever. He told Adam as much, told him as much as he could about the extent of his powers, though he didn't doubt that some subconscious part of the little anti-christ knew exactly how powerful he was.

"I'm going to start time. You won't have long to do whatever you're going to do." He did his best to make it reassuring, but he didn't have a lot of practice, even with the years he spent raising Warlock. But that was why he had Aziraphale with him, the light to temper his darkness, the reason to his impulse. The angel to his demon.

For a moment, a brief, brief moment, Crowley considered releasing Adam from the spell but not himself or Aziraphale. For a second, he considered sinking his fingers into those white, white feathers and pulling Aziraphale to him. For a blink that felt like the age of a star, he considered kissing Aziraphale, just once, just this once. Just… just to have had it, in case it all went wrong. Just- just… in case.

For a moment, Crowley considered. And then he let time slip through his fingers.

* * *

_Honey you're familiar like my mirror years ago / Idealism sits in prison, chivalry fell on it's sword_

Crawley liked Lucifer, but then again, most of the angels in the lower spheres did. He was the only Archangel who didn't shoo them away when they were curious, who gave answers if he had them, who sought answers if he didn't know. What wasn't there to like? But lately, his gatherings had gotten… strange.

Crawley liked to keep to the outskirts of Lucifer's meetings, away from the bulk of the push-and-pull crowd who didn't mind being all crushed up and intertwined, wings overlapping almost intimately. It wasn't for Crawley, so he stuck to the outskirts. But even at the edges, he was starting to get an uneasy feeling from the crowd.

Sometimes, the things he heard made him wary. Like what he was hearing now. Too much speculation on what could happen to God, what might be different if Lucifer was In Charge. Now, Crawley might have had questions, he might have wanted answers, but never once had he questioned God's place in all their lives. She was their _maker_. No, something was happening and he didn't want to be a part of it, not anymore.

Other angels had moved into the spaces around him, and Crawley was already starting to shuffle his way out when a wave swept over the gathering, blasting Crawley with anger and fear, panic and chaos. Somewhere on the far edge, there was a bright light, and then at its center, a darker light - a flash of fire. There was a ripple through the crowd, and then just as many angels surged towards the light as away from it. God's light, Crawley knew without question.

He tried to get away, he really did, but God was all encompassing, all knowing, and her light flashed over the crowd, freezing them in place. Even Crawley's wings couldn't move, and something that crashed like the birth of a star and rang of disappointment came over him, nearly blinding him with despair. It dispersed almost immediately, but he remained immobile as God's voice clanged in his head with all the sound and power of things She had not yet created.

_**"Your choices are ever your own, Crawley,"**_ She condemned, though the way she said his name sounded like 'Crowley'. _**"In your search for companionship, you will Fall, but you will never again be alone."**_

There wasn't enough time to ask what She meant before Crawley found out.

At first, he thought the stars were burning away as he fell through space, but he soon came to the terrifying realization that it wasn't the stars that were burning, but his _wings_. It was the white of his wings peeling away like the light was being drawn from them. Almost immediately after he had the thought, he came to a crashing halt upon cold, hard stone, and it took a long time before he could gather himself enough to stand, only to wish he hadn't.

Even after all the cosmos Crawley helped create, he couldn't have imagined the place he found himself in now, the long halls of damp, dark stone. It was the opposite of Heaven in every way, right down to the beings around him. Beings who might have been angels once, but who now had wings of black and twisted, malformed faces. He didn't know how long this place had existed but the air was already heavy enough to make him ill.

God's light illuminated the space with a suddenness and a brightness that burned Crawley's eyes, and he covered them instinctively, suddenly afraid that he had to cover them at all. _**"Forever more, you shall be known as my Fallen, as demons, a plague upon humankind,"**_ God said, and Crawley jerked like his wings had been pulled, as everyone around him did the same. _**"You wished to be free from Heaven, and your freedom I have granted. You will never again be beholden to the rules of the angelic host, but never again will you be allowed to enter Heaven."**_ For a brief, peculiar moment, Crawley felt like God was laughing, as if She'd just told a joke, and it only made the sickness inside him coil tighter. _**"Hell is your home now, and I hope you are pleased with the gift you wanted of me. Goodbye, my demons."**_

For long moments, there was nothing but silence in the strange halls. Then, in the distance, there arose a scream of anguish, a roar of anger. One by one, the newly-named demons raised their voices, calling out their anger into the darkness, until Crawley felt alone in his silence. It wasn't until the first voices were starting to fade that grief crawled sharp and sudden up Crawley's throat. Hidden in the center of fury, Crawley threw his head back and screamed.

* * *

_Innocence died screaming, honey ask me I should know / I slithered here from Eden just to **hide** outside your door_

Time for an immortal was nebulous at best, but even for Crowley, the Apocalypse That Wasn't felt like it was only yesterday. In actuality, it had been a full rotation of the earth around the sun since that day when the second great war of Heaven and Hell was averted, and Crowley and Aziraphale were still basking in the freedom of being left alone. Neither of them had received any mandate from either of their head offices, and Crowley was strangely optimistic that the same would hold true for the next century or so. For once, Aziraphale was the cynical one, banking on only the next decade, and though Crowley didn't want it to be true, he wouldn't be surprised if it turned out to be.

Until then, Crowley fully intended on spending as much time with his angel as was possible, whether his angel knew it or not.

The bookshop was as cozy and inviting as it always was. Warm too, especially in Crowley's patch of sunlight on the mezzanine where he'd taken numerous naps over the past 20-some-odd decades. He'd spent most of the last year in just this spot, reverting to his snake form and slinking up the almost-hidden staircase whenever Aziraphale bid him farewell, just so he didn't have to part from the comfort of his angel's presence. After all, if Heaven and Hell weren't watching over them, then there was no one to see how much time they spent together. No one to forbid him from courting Aziraphale nice and proper, the way a demon should never do, but the way Aziraphale deserved nonetheless.

"Be careful not to fall off, my dear."

Crowley wasn't sure what was more surprising: the absent-minded admonishment or the warm press of a hand to the top of his snake head.

He looked up to find his angel nose-deep in a book, with several more tucked under his arm, as he moved through the stacks towards the staircase. Crowley uncurled languidly before following after, wondering if Aziraphale had actually known he was there, and for how long, or if he'd just taken it in oblivious stride like he did whenever he was engrossed in an interesting text. He slithered down the stairs after Aziraphale without bothering to take back his human shape, and he was rewarded with a customer near the bottom of the stairs spotting him and bolting out the door, the book in her hand falling to the floor with a disgruntled _thunk_.

Aziraphale looked up with a frown of annoyance at one of his precious books being mistreated, and he didn't seem to register Crowley's presence until after he'd picked the book up and placed it reverently back on the shelf. "Crowley," he said with such soft, warm regard that Crowley couldn't help the melt of scales into skin, the split of his tail into legs, his upright transformation. His chest felt warm and his expression soft and even his yearning during the apocalypse hadn't been this strong. "What brings you by?"

His angel gave no indication of fear or trepidation or even rejection as Crowley sauntered forward. There was no sign of alarm, not until Crowley was practically pressed against him, his hands safely tucked in his pockets to keep from touching. It was only when they were too close to be considered platonic, and only when Crowley brought his face in close to brush his lips across Aziraphale's cheekbone, did he catch the widening of Aziraphale's eyes and the way his breath hitched in his throat.

"Just you, angel," Crowley murmured as he pulled back to study his angel's face to find only that endearing, wide-eyed look.

Emboldened by the lack of pushback, Crowley leaned forward again to brush his lips across Aziraphale's other cheekbone. "Just you," he whispered.

This time, when he pulled back, it was to find red blooming across the skin he'd just kissed, all the way up to the angel's rounded ear tips. But no rejection. Throwing caution to the wind, Crowley leaned in for a third time and finally, after six millennia of waiting, finally pressed his mouth to Aziraphale's.

When he pulled back, his angel's entire pale face had turned a soft pink, and Crowley had to tighten his hands in his pockets. "Only. Ever. You."

Time passed. The earth turned around the sun. A star formed and died. And at last, at long last, Aziraphale reached for Crowley, and kissed him back.

FIN

* * *

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